First Born(80)

The door opens.

I climb inside.

‘Get down in the footwell and cover yourself with the blanket.’

I do as he says. I don’t utter a word.

We drive and drive. I try to judge the direction and the distance by focusing on the buildings and light I can see through the material of the blanket. I already know where we’re headed, I just don’t know the route he’ll take.

‘They got close,’ he says.

‘I know they did.’

He drives on. The car smells brand new. I’m guessing we’re travelling at five per cent below the speed limit. I’m guessing he’s careful to use his mirrors and his indicators. Just another Volvo driving to New Jersey.

The lights are few and far between.

We drive off the expressway and into what feels like a suburb.

Five minutes later we slow to a crawl and pull into what looks like a residential, two-car garage.

Everything goes dark.

‘End of the line,’ he says.

‘What?’

‘Get out.’





Chapter 49


The garage is lit by three fluorescent strip-lights and the floor is squeaky clean. It looks rubberised, like a hospital floor.

There are clear plastic sheets on the walls and on the floor.

The man from the car is wearing latex gloves.

There’s a barrel of liquid covered in hazard warning labels.

At the far end of the room is a wall of tools and machines, each one attached to a pin board and circled in white.

DeLuca walks through a door and hands me a bottle of water. The seal is secure. It’s a fresh bottle.

‘Drink. You need to go to the bathroom, there’s a bucket in the corner.’

I scowl at him and take a sip from the water. ‘What is this place?’

‘You’ve never been here. You’ll never be here again.’

‘Where am I?’

‘Nowhere,’ he says, opening the rear hatch of a Mercedes SUV. ‘Get in.’

‘In the back?’

‘No,’ says DeLuca. ‘In the box.’

There’s a black leather box with name tags and tassels. It has air holes and vents.

‘In the box?’

‘The other one’s already at the hangar. Twin boxes. You’ll need this.’ He hands me a Dictaphone. ‘And this.’ He hands me a sheet of folded fur.

‘What?’

‘The Man has two dogs.’

‘I read about them. St Bernard’s?’

‘Bernese mountain dogs. Two sisters from the same litter. Krista’s already close to the hangar and this crate belongs to Milla.’

He explains that the suitcase method of entry, the way I got back to London from New York a week ago, with me folded inside reinforced wheeled luggage, may not work this time. Too risky. The airports have heightened security. He doesn’t know if it’s connected to the recent spate of murders in Manhattan, or if it’s just the TSA tightening up. So we have a new method. There’s no way this would work with a commercial airline, but private is different. This box solution, combined with the fact that James Kandee has two officials at the airport on his payroll, will suffice. Though he says ‘payroll’, no cash has ever changed hands, of course. Just two sponsorships so one guy’s daughter can study at Brown and the other guy’s son gets put through Penn State. A favour for a favour: an easy passage through customs for a free college education.

The bespoke leather container is roomier than the customised suitcase I travelled in last time. I ached for two days after that journey and I had a cramp for the second half of the flight. I wore an adult diaper, supplied, but I didn’t need to use it. I’m used to wearing them for research marathons. They don’t bother me. That suitcase was reinforced; this is even more luxurious: French leather from the house of Hermès. I’m the same weight as the dog, apparently. And this long leather box allows me to stretch a little. DeLuca explains how the matching boxes were built to exacting specifications, with mesh vents and air holes and full coverage, unlike traditional crates, to ensure the anxious dogs are calm in transit. I have a water bottle with a straw and a kibble feeder full of organic granola.

Before we leave in the Mercedes another guy walks through and drives off in the Volvo we arrived in. Two minutes later we drive out of the door.

It’s a strange feeling being encased in a box of your own volition. The human instinct – my instinct – is still to scream. To fight. I was zipped into this thing voluntarily, clutching my Dictaphone device and my folded piece of fur. But still I want to yell and force my back up through the zipped leather lid. I want to break this open, but I just stay as calm and as quiet as I can.

‘Test the devices,’ says DeLuca from the driving seat.

I press button one and the Dictaphone emits a growling noise. I press button two: a different growl, more aggressive. Three and four are both barks, one short, one more of a howl. He opens the Velcro hatch and I hold the patch of fur as instructed and he scans it.

‘Good,’ says DeLuca. ‘Any questions.’

‘Did you get my money from my room?’

‘The Man will fill you in.’

That doesn’t sound positive.

‘All good?’

‘All good.’